And Then You
by alphastiles
Summary: JohnLock. John meets Sherlock at his army friend, Mycroft's, place when they meet for dinner. It is Mycroft's brother, Sherlock, and instantly, Sherlock sets his eyes on John.
1. Chapter 1

It was just one of those god awful nights. Where the weather did not cease and the rain continued to fall in incomprehensible amounts. For a change, John had been invited to dinner at a former military friend's house who had recently returned from Afghanistan, just as himself a few months ago. And it just had to be the night that the stereotypical English weather had decided to taint John's ever depressive mood into more of a psychopathic depressive emotion which caused him to feel more unhappy than he had ever been before. John didn't like the rain; this was evident, but poor John had chosen the single most horribly weather-blessed country to his known existence. But he was tied to London, and there was no leaving it anytime soon.

John stood near the end of his driveway, holding a crème coloured umbrella. It was being pelted by small raindrops, causing the material to cave in at points. He was fortunate enough to live where taxi's regularly passed through, so he needn't have gone far to search for one, which slightly improved his mood. And John wanted a glass of wine; a cab seemed the proper way to travel this evening.

The cab was soothing; warm and quiet. It didn't take long really; John was at his destination in little more than twenty minutes. He thanked the driver and paid him, before scurrying out into the dismal weather once more.

He hadn't seen Mycroft for about a year, on estimate. The last John saw of him was in a mess hall in Afghanistan where they both shared lunch together; club sandwiches if John recalled correctly. In fact, John hardly knew Mycroft. He was actually now asking himself why he was even standing in the lobby of Mycroft's apartment. _Oh well, _he thought.

_Free food._

"Ah, Watson!" Mycroft extended his skinny fingers to John.

"Long time, no see." John smiled dismally, shaking the offered hand.

Mycroft moved aside to make room for John to pass through. Their coats brushed slightly as John placed his umbrella in the rack beside the door. It was full with other umbrellas and coats, puddles revolving around them.

The apartment was not really an apartment at all. It had high ceilings, with wide walls and royal looking furniture serving as the icing on the cake. Mycroft led John through the house until they reached a candlelit room where many unfamiliar faces sat around the large oak table. John hung his head and fiddled with his coat. He wasn't too good with new people.

"Family, friends," Mycroft began, smiling at his guests.

"This is Mr. John Watson."

"Doctor." John muttered under his breath. Being called Mister made him feel old.

"Welcome, Doctor." A deep voice was heard near the opposite end of the table.

John raised his head and saw a tight curled head of hair and a long, slender face gazing at him.

"Yes, John, this is my brother, Sherlock." Mycroft forcibly smiled.

"It's a pleasure." Sherlock nodded, raising his glass at John.

John smiled uncomfortably.

"John. Take a seat here; we are just about to start dinner."

"Yes, sorry I am late. You know London cabs." John murmured to Mycroft.

"Understandable." He nodded.

John had never had such a finely cooked chicken breast in his life. He usually overcooked it or it would be festering with salmonella. So, all in all, John's mood was actually improving. Good food made a happy man, or a less depressed one. But John could not help but notice that all the while he was pushing forkfuls of food into his mouth, that two blue eyes gazed upon him of which belonged to one Sherlock Holmes. It made John nervous, but he continued eating nonetheless. When the two did make awkward eye contact, John shied away and Sherlock merely smirked. It happened only three or four times, but each time, John felt more at ease than he did the time before and Sherlock seemed to be getting more pleasure from it.

When the dinner was over and the mindless chatter halted, all of the faces John didn't know wandered out of the house. John rose from his seat and followed in order.

"Military, is it?"

John turned to see those blue eyes once again interrogating his own.

"Yes, I know your brother from there." John said turning to look at the elevator buttons, trying not to make eye contact with him once more. The nature of Sherlock's glance was mildly unbearable for John, so the elevator buttons serviced as a distraction.

"He told me you were injured. Shoulder?"

"How do you know it was my shoulder?" John looked quizzically at the buttons, as if he was looking at Holmes. He had never told Mycroft he was shot in the shoulder.

"Your left one slightly drops compared to your right. But nonetheless, your posture is rather immaculate."

"I guess I should thank you." John groaned.

The elevator doors drew open and John stepped out.

"Where do you live, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock blurted, as John peered out of the window, frowning at the rain.

"Excuse me?" John turned to Sherlock.

"Your house? At which number and street do you reside in Doctor Watson?"

"Please, just John."

"At which number and street do you reside in John?"

"Why?"

"I have a car. And you don't have enough money in your pocket to go further than two streets away." Sherlock smiled.

"I have e-" John shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out a few coins. Sighing, he placed them back in.

"I can walk." John eventually said.

"No, I insist."

"Why? You only just met me, Mr Holmes."

"Just Sherlock, please." He grinned. John raised his eyebrow, and reached his hand out for the door.

"Look, I'm not going to stab you in your jugular vein then dump your body in a ditch. No, I'm far too classy for that, John. It would leave an awful mess, and I am not in any mood to cover my tracks. Now, if you would accompany me to my car, I would be much obliged to drive you home." Sherlock said, placing his hand on John's to stop him from opening the door onto the street.

John looked at Sherlock's hand on his own, and looked up at Sherlock.

"You're nothing like Mycroft." John shrugged.

"Thank you." Sherlock said, opening the door for the two to pass through.

The dinner wasn't nearly as comparable to the ensconcing uncomfortable atmosphere of that in car. But John decided to lighten the air.

"So what do you do, Sherlock?"

"I help the police with their investigations."

"Oh. Interesting."

"Yes, I rather enjoy it."

The car was quiet for a few minutes. John gazed out of the window, and watched the rain drops form funny shapes on the pane.

"Hey, wait, I didn't tell you where I lived."

"I know. We're not going to your house."

"Where are we going?"

"Mine."


	2. Chapter 2

John was mildly confused, but he did not say a word. Sherlock Holmes, a man John had only just met, just addressed, just hopped in the car of and just realised Sherlock is probably a mass murderer. Unfortunately, there was no going back now, and John sat solemnly in the car.

Baker Street, above a café, a little flat; this was not the abode John was expecting. After see Mycroft's apartment, he had withheld higher expectations, especially more than a small, one bedroom apartment, crowded in books and small laboratorial structures.

"Make yourself at home." Sherlock said, as he took off his scarf and unwrapped himself from his coat.

"Ah, Sherlock." John began, standing at the edge of the stairs.

"You're a doctor, are you not?" Sherlock inquired, walking ever so gracefully around the room, cleaning small messes that were not going to enhance the area even if tidy. John watched in utter amusement. He was unsure of what Sherlock was doing and for some reason, the anxiety of being in a strangers house had hit him, thus turning into a nervous amusing feeling. Shutting the door behind him, he wandered further into Sherlock's house, reading the titles of books strewed across the coffee table and looking at small ornaments placed on the mantelpiece above the unused fireplace. John thought about how nice having a fire would be in winter.

"Yes. I am. And what are we doing-"

"And you're gay too?"

John looked at Sherlock. The expression his face depicted was one of confusion and shock. The amusement was gone from John's now pale and dismal face. He took a step back away from Sherlock and raised his eyebrow. For about a year or two now, John had been questioning himself, but not once did he think he was gay. In fact, he refused to be gay. Not because he was Christian, or he thought it wrong, but merely because he didn't want to accept that fact that he was attracted to the same gender. John had never had an experience, per say, but he had shared a mutual like with a fellow medic in Afghanistan. Nothing came of it, and John was rather thankful. He had not thought of that until right in this moment. He was infuriated, and embarrassed.

"No, I am not…gay." John hissed, feeling dirty even just saying the word.

"Bisexual then? Not only do you have the posture of a soldier, John, but you have the arched back of a gay man. Your fingers suggest that you cook quite often by the state of the burns on the palms side, from using a pan possibly, but you don't cook like a heterosexual. No, no, you put together immaculate dishes. No, not a pan then, a wok? The way you part your hair from the left and the upkeep of not only your hair, but your clothing, indicates you take care of yourself, and quite frequently in fact; more often so than any other man that I have met before. And-"

"What do you think you're doing?" John interrupted, his eyes knitting together in sheer amazement and anger. "You don't know what or who I am. I'm going to walk home."

"Don't worry, John. You're not the only one who is gay." Sherlock frowned, before perching himself on the armchair sitting in the far corner of the room. "Do you even know where you're going?"

"Sherlock Holmes. I am offended that you have the audacity to accuse me of such things and quite frankly, I am horrified. I should've guessed you'd be like Mycroft. You think you know everything, don't you Holmes? Here's some news for you; you're wrong." John straightened out his jacket collar and began to walk to the door before halting, and turning to Holmes once more. "And so what if I was gay? Not that I am."

"Sheer curiosity." Sherlock grinned, seeing write through John's lies. John rolled his eyes and swung the door open in the crudest fashion before walking out and slamming it. As John plodded out into the rain once more, now remembering he had left his umbrella at Mycroft's, he sighed. It was not just a sigh like when you are bored or you subconsciously do it, it was a sigh of regret and shame. Not once had any person humiliated him such as Sherlock Holmes just did.

Sherlock remained perched in his armchair throughout John's little façade of storming out. He himself did not classify nor identify to any particular sexuality. He liked to call himself 'open-minded' or something along those lines. Sherlock did not care for the genitals on a fellow person, but merely the person himself. Although, Sherlock was not one to identify with feelings either, but for some strange reason he found himself feeling rather guilty for what he just did. The look on John's face was enough to make Sherlock regret it.

Slowly, Sherlock rose from his seat and headed back to his coat at the door. He reached into the inner pocket, which was rather large and to his liking; always good to 'borrow' evidence with. But instead, he pulled out a crème coloured umbrella. This was his key to see John again; and to apologise.

This was his bargaining chip.


	3. Chapter 3

For days, Sherlock remained in his flat, deep in the darkest places of his mind. He thought of how he should pursue John, but Sherlock did not man such courage to do so. The one thing that constantly filled his mind was the pain he saw on John's face; a look of sheer humiliation.

"I have to apologise." Sherlock confessed to the empty air. Only now was Sherlock noticing that even if John was only in the flat for just a short amount of time, the place was empty…lonely without him.

He hurriedly walked towards his coat and worked his way into it; followed by his token navy scarf. Sherlock reached into his inner pocket once more, to double check that the umbrella was still there.

It was.

John Watson was an easy man to find. A quick google search of his name and a residential address offered itself on the screen. He wasn't far, but nor was he close. Sherlock did not drive a car, so a cab was the suitable option.

* * *

As he watched the shadows roll past the window, Sherlock thought of what he might say. Quite frankly, Sherlock had not planned his confrontation very well. He hardly knew John; he didn't know what he liked, or how he live or anything that could certainly help him in gaining a mutual stance with John.

"Twenty four eighty." The cab driver muttered. Sherlock paid him willingly, throwing more than what was needed into the drivers lap before rushing out into what seemed to be a calm night. The rain had stopped finally. The weather had been dismal within the last four days since seeing John. The rain was what Sherlock woke up to, and fell asleep to. But this evening seemed calm and quiet and almost the perfect night to not be Sherlock's usual, sociopathic self.

Sherlock sauntered up towards the flat number panel by the door. Four people lived in these dingey looking flats; one person stacked upon another. John was at floor number three, but knowing that John would not buzz Sherlock in, he reached for the floor above.

"Hello?" A woman's voice, mid-fifties, healthy.

"Ah, it's me." Sherlock stammered.

"Oh. Who's me?" She cackled.

"You know."

The door buzzed.

"What? I mean, thank you ma'am." Sherlock was slightly confused with conversation he just withheld. But he shrugged it off and swung open the door.

Sherlock knocked three times before hearing the faintest amount of life from inside John's flat.

"What?" Sherlock heard the murmur of John's sleepy voice from behind the door.

"It's Sherlock."

"Oh."

"Please let me in."

"Why?"

Sherlock stopped at this point. Why should John let him in? After all, Sherlock had patronized him a few nights before and humiliated John beyond despair.

"Please." Sherlock almost whimpered the words. Behind the door fell quiet. Eventually, the door latch was fiddled with on the other side and the door eased open ever so slowly. Two eyes peered between the miniscule gap.

"What do you want?" John sighed, wiping the sleep from his eyes in the unclassiest of manners.

"You forgot your umbrella, Doctor Watson." Sherlock said, fishing said umbrella from his coat. He had regained his composure; he was becoming his normal self.

"Why did you really come?"

The door lessened in space between that and the frame; almost as if John did not want Sherlock there. But for what reason would he want Sherlock to come into his home…his safety net?

"I wanted to apologise for my uncalled for behaviour the other evening." Sherlock whispered. "And if you feel ever so inclined, you could allow me into your house."

Unlike Sherlock's flat, John's was empty. Barely any furniture adorned what could be a lovely and homely place. It was dull and it perfectly depicted every emotion the John Watson came to feel in his normal and depressing lifestyle. A television sat in the corner of the lounging area, and a single chair rested in front. A painting, possibly a Chinese replica of a temple was placed above the television. That was John Watson's flat. Nothingness.

"Sherlock, please, I'm trying to sleep."

It was only now that Sherlock had noticed that John was shirtless. He wore only sweat pants that hung from his hips like that of a teenage boy. It was mildly obvious that John was not wearing undergarments either, judging from the bulge embellishing the grey of his pants. The image that was before Sherlock involuntarily made him aware of his own existence is parts of his body that hadn't been touched in years; but he hid it well.

"I'm sorry, John. I should not have humiliated you the other evening. I don't think before I speak." Sherlock sighed, trying to avoid eye contact with any part of John.

"Yes that is rather obvious, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh, so it's Mr. Holmes now?"

"You don't have my respect to be called by your first name, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock smiled. He took a small step forward, further into the apartment and gazed around. John had since sat in the seat in front of the television, but did not turn it on.

"Let me earn your respect." Sherlock teased, his words rolling off of his tongue with luxury.

John's stomach tightened. He had to admit to himself that Sherlock was handsome and the way he spoke was taunting. It was threatening, and this pleased John.

"Fine. First step then," John began, arching his neck to face the kitchen bench. "Leave. Let me sleep. Leave your number on the bench."

Sherlock said nothing. He wandered over to the bench in the direction that John had looked. Sherlock found a notepad and a pen. As Sherlock began to write, John plodded down the hall and a door was heard shutting.

* * *

Sherlock needed a shower. Yes, a long, warm shower. He walked into his bathroom, it was pristine. The shower was rather large. It was glass, and the only form of protection from the outside was the condensation which built on the glass from running hot water.

Sherlock ran the shower, running his hand under to get the temperature just right. Sherlock stripped himself free of his clothing and stepped in.

For Sherlock, a shower was a place of thought, but right now the only thought that enriched his mind was that of grey sweat pant bulges and teenage hips.

The way they hung so gracefully from his hips. John's body, a soldier's body.

Once again, but more abruptly this time, Sherlock's existence became inevitable. His cock rose and he couldn't help but slam it into his hand, over and over again, feeling his glory. Sherlock slurred John's name.

"Yes. John." He exclaimed, pelvic movements becoming swifter and breathing more heavy. Sherlock's voice was hoarse as he moaned John's name repeatedly.

This was Sherlock's release.


End file.
